


Schism

by Maiafay



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Adult Content, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Cults, Dark, Dubious Consent, F/M, Lovecraftian, M/M, Non traditional vampires, Psychological Horror, Secret Societies, Vampires, cosmic horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 12:36:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19426117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiafay/pseuds/Maiafay
Summary: A fateful encounter at Butcher's Creek changes Arthur Morgan's life. and not for the better. His tuberculosis is cured, but at a price. Keeping what's left of the gang and his sanity from falling apart is a daunting task, let alone stopping an ancient evil from devouring the world.





	Schism

**Author's Note:**

> Red Dead Redemption meets Dracula, but with a Lovecraftian twist.

He had told Mrs. Downes once that he'd hoped the hereafter was hot and terrible. What a damn fool he was. Hindsight was never kind to the one looking back. All those shoulda's and coulda's and no way to change none of it. He was damned and deserved to be damned. No one in this world deserved it more.

Arthur Morgan sighed as he rode the shaded winding path through the woods of Roanoke Ridge to Butcher's Creek. Sadie said she needed time to figure out a plan to rescue John. Said they didn't need no one else. Romantic in a sense, though he doubted she meant it that way. Well, John wasn't going nowhere, and for the moment, didn't seem in any danger of swinging. Abigail though, that poor woman was beside herself with worry. And little Jack had said barely a word since his daddy got caught. And Dutch was damn near useless. He sighed again, but this time it snagged in his chest and his lungs quivered a warning. Oh no. Not now. Damn it all to —

The snag erupted into an all out fit, had him coughing and sputtering until his lungs ached and his head swum. His golden bay Turkomen, Goldie (yes, he was none too creative with names), whinnied in sympathy and slowed until he recovered himself. All this damp and cold wasn't doing him any favors, and today seemed particularly miserable. Matched his mood, and the gang's current morale, all of them huddled in that dilapidated mess of a village back in Lakay. They were coming undone, the seams unraveling faster than anyone could mend. All the bickering, blame, and confusion. And Dutch on the back porch, feet propped up on the railing, muttering to himself about chess and other weirdness. Dutch's eyes, somehow both empty and full and damn unsettling to look into. Didn't seem the right time to talk sense into his mentor. Then again, no time seemed right no more. Damn, he missed Hosea. Missed the voice of reason. Hosea woulda set Dutch straight — at least reminded him of what was important. The gang, their family. Money, or lack thereof was tearing them apart. All this waste. All this chaos. And over some damn fool pipe dream called Tahiti. Dutch always had a plan. Hell, even his plans had plans.

_Have some goddamned faith, Arthur._

He hunched over Goldie, huddling against the evening drizzle in the warmth of his scout coat. Fit a lot looser than a month ago. Thirty pounds at least had seemed to have melted away overnight. Consumption. His body eating itself. And it would keep eating and eating until there was nothing left.

_My husband isn't well._

Dutch and Mrs. Downes, singing a duo of regret in his head. What was done was done. No use crying over it. Or raging for that matter — though he had done a fair bit of that. Plenty of whiskey and snarling in his journal about fate and the spiteful hand the bitch had dealt. Death had always been coming for him, but he should go out like a proper outlaw, dying under a hail of bullets, dying for what he believed in. Not going into that final dark with a wheezing whimper.

Ah well…enough feeling sorry for himself. Wasn't doing him no favors anyhow. He had his demons sure, but the folk at Butcher's Creek seemed to think they had real ones. The darkness…or some shit. That fella Lemuel he had rescued the other day seemed odd enough, but a whole village of inbred hillbillies convinced they had some sort of curse? It was the kind of distraction he needed right now. The coughing fits were gettin' worse and like a wounded dog, he didn't want no one back at camp near him. Didn't want the women to see him weak and shaking. Didn't want little Jack asking why Uncle Arthur wouldn't stop coughing. Didn't want Dutch to keep eying him like a horse in need of putting down. And Micah, goddamn Micah. The malicious sneer on that rat face, and the new nickname the bastard had given him — both were downright unbearable.

He needed a minute to himself. Clear his head, if that were possible. His lungs though, they were beyond hope of clearing. But while he still drew breath, he was going to make things right. See if there still was some good in him like Sister Calderon claimed. Maybe if he did enough for folk before the end, hell would be less hot and terrible.

The wind picked up, carried the scent of damp grass and dripping leaves. Roanoke Ridge. Spooky place. These woods were creepy in the daytime, let alone with the sun slipping away and the fog rolling in. Not as unsettling as the swamps, but it carried its own kind of weird for sure. Saw a show once about the Ridge, British ghosts attacking some fella and his girl. Cut the poor boy's head clean off and the girl was burned by her own people for witchcraft. Didn't believe none of it until riding up this way for the first time. Whispers through the trees, leaves rustling like voices. His imagination getting the better of him, but then the voices became clearer and he couldn't blame the wind or the leaves. A fella and a woman speaking, but they sounded all around him. Words he couldn't quite make out. Spooked the hell out of Goldie (and to be honest, himself) and she bolted like her mane had caught fire. Took a good half an hour to calm her down. This damn country. Curses and ghosts and strange folk. What wasn't trying to kill him was trying to scare him to death.

Through the dense wood, Butcher's Creek showed itself shack by old rotting shack. The smell of livestock and unwashed folk was especially pungent this evening, chickens and pigs roaming their poor excuse for fencing in a daze, either rolling in the mud or pecking at feed buried under it. Flies buzzed over dung and the blood soaked tables in the butcher's stall. Animal carcasses and entrails swung in the wind. What horses these folk once owned littered the ground, bones caked with mud and bleached by the sun. Starved or butchered for food, he couldn't tell, but if any of these hillbillies ever laid a hand on his Goldie he'd show them what a curse truly was.

Scraps of curtains pulled back as folk squinted at him like rats would at a prowling cat. Others side-eyed him from rickety porches as they relaxed for the evening. Suspicious most, but some raised their hand in recognition. He had saved one of their own, after all. Though saved from what exactly, he had no idea.

Obediah's humble abode was located toward the edge of the village. Looked a little more kept than the other dwellings, no bones or animal innards as decorations at least. After a hard knock, the door cracked and Obediah's crooked beak of a nose poked out, a filthy and skinny arm shooing him away.

"B-be gone, sir. Be gone! Not because we cares not, no, no, but because we cares!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Was Lemuel worse? That fella hadn't been right in the head, attacking for no reason. Caught him off guard too, but then again, he was a dead man walking. The old instincts and reflexes weren't what they used to be. Obediah blocked the threshold with his scrawny body, using both arms now to shoo him off.

"Demons have us by the throat, sir!" Obediah drawing out the "sir" in a strangled wail. "It's the darkness. The darkness…it's, it's everywhere!"

Of course, the darkness. The supposed curse these idiot folk thought they had.

"Obediah, you ain't making a lick of sense."

"We told you, sir. They come in the darkness! They're coming! Be gone now, be gone before it takes you too!"

"Stop this, now. Tell me what's really going —"

A woman's scream cut him off. Obediah scurried back into his hole and slammed the door. The woman screamed for help again, this time her cry was overtaken with the snarls of dogs and pigs squealing in agony. Wolves? No, wolves weren't that stupid to attack a settlement. Wild dogs most likely, a pack of them descending from the woods and pouncing on easy meals.

Well then, time to play the hero.

He grabbed the shotgun from his saddle and smacked Goldie's rump to send her galloping off. Then he took care of business, one mangy mutt at a time. Crazy dogs were everywhere, the pack probably starving or rabid or both. Maybe the lake is what drove them mad, the water carrying some sort of poison. Realized things weren't right around here a month ago when he tossed back every fish he had caught in the Elysian Pool. Half rotten, diseased. Strange growths around their gaping mouths. These dogs had the same nasty sores, their fur in matted patches. The shotgun made quick work of most, and sent the rest tucking tail and running off.

Grateful folk surrounded him back at Obediah's shack, whispering their thanks in a queer, chant-like manner, going on and on about help coming in "different forms" and other such nonsense. "I told you, Obediah, it's just sick dogs." Trying to get these folk to see reason was like trying to teach a blind man to paint. They could do it if they tried, but damn, was it messy. "It ain't nice, but it's nothing supernatural. No darkness. No curse."

"No, sir, we knows what it is. He told us so! The darkness!" Obediah going on with his foolishness again. "He said they would come, and that you would come." The folk around Obediah muttered and bounced their heads like a bunch of dumb sheep. All they needed were bell collars. "Everything he said has come to pass. H-he was right about it all."

"Who was right?"

" _I was._ "

Okay, gotta give the Indian fella some credit. He knew how to make an entrance, coming out of the shadows of the woods like some messenger of doom, flickering flames from the torches reflecting on the beads of his native dress. Long black hair streaked with gray, a plain lined face, and beady eyes, crafty and dark. They flickered like the fire, giving the crowd a once over, judging and measuring the restless flock. Then those dark eyes fell on him. The Indian smirked as if coming to a decision, and drew up to make himself look important. Yep, big and dumb is what they always assumed, and if he was honest with himself, they wouldn't be far off. But what he lacked in higher education, he made up for in experience and cunning — at least that's what Hosea always said. Let this shaman wannabe just try to pull the wool over his eyes like he'd obviously had done with these folk.

He smiled uncertainly, already acting the part of big and dumb. "And uh, just who are you then, partner?"

The shaman didn't answer, too busy putting on the theatrics. He addressed the folks gathered, gesturing dramatically to the woods. "The four legged demons are dead, but not _gone_. They have taken another form. A _dangerous_ form. I told you before the darkness cannot be defeated. Only contained. Trust me, you poor souls. I will protect you. It's why I've come. Beware, the curse has _changed_."

He stifled a snort and rolled his eyes. Of course it had _changed_. This was a con, plain and simple. But what this fool wanted with a bunch of hill billies was beyond him — but the fearful whispering from the town folk as they turned to one another for comfort, clasping hands and praying — it was just damn mean. Scaring em all like this. "What curse are you going on about?" It was hard keeping his voice friendly when all he wanted to do was punch this smug asshole in the face. "Told you, it was nothing but sick dogs."

"Lies!" The shaman hissed, pointing at him, and then that finger traveled around to everyone else. "I told you he would come. And I told you he would _lie_. The darkness hasn't left. It grows…stronger! _Daaaarker_." Drawing out that last word like a showman on stage.

"Yes, yes", the stupid sheep said, all of them now casting dubious glances at him as the meaning of the shaman's words sunk into their pea brains. They shuffled away, the men folk glaring and the women clutching their throats like he would slit them at any second. Dumbasses. He should get on and leave them to this fool's antics. He should…but he didn't. Something didn't smell right and it wasn't the rotting meat carcasses swinging in the wind. All this mumble jumble and for what? What did this fella want from these folks?

The show went on, and he was reduced to the annoyed spectator without any tomatoes to throw. The shaman held up a dream catcher of sorts, some ugly woven thing with a bunch of feathers in the center, saying how it was a charm and the demons - yes, demons - were held back by the charms and thus, couldn't attack - or something. He'd stop listening by then, already planning how to end this little scheme. Before the show was over, he made sure to ask what would happen if the charms was gone, and the shaman made it abundantly clear by no means should he touch them. Not now. Not ever. Or the DEMONS would come, and the darkness, and the curse, and blah blah blah.

Yeah, kiss his ass.

He camped near the village and though it took him three cups of coffee, two coughing fits and a round of dizziness to get started, he set out to look for these supposed cursed magical charms at the first light of dawn. Not that it would make the world a better place, or nudge him out of the hellfire he was surely bound for - but to give those folk some measure of peace. To make their days less dark and fearful.

It was warmer today, so he went demon catcher hunting in his black union shirt and jeans, neckerchief tied loose around his throat. Figured the Indian fella would keep the charms close to the Creek, so he started around there. Took him an hour or so to locate them, but all he really had to do was follow his ears. Like wind chimes they were, making an eerie knelling as they swung in the trees by the river. Thirteen in all, and good target practice for his rolling block rifle. But when he got back to the Creek and told Obediah the good news, that the curse was lifted and the village was saved, the shaman had to go pissing all over it, saying now the demons was set "loose", and destroying the charms was a dark "omen", and the darkness was…darker, or some shit. By then he'd had enough and when shaman declared like some high and mighty preacher, "I have a gift! My ancestors —" he shook his fist in the old Indian's face.

"Yeah, well I gotta _gift_ right here —"

Which made the fool run yelping into the woods like a kicked dog, hollering something about "communing with the spirits!" Obediah and the rest were fretting and fussing, unsure what to think. At least Obediah was starting to see reason and mentioned something about a dig not too far from the village. Said the shaman told them to stay away from it. And if the shaman said to stay away, that was the first place he'd go looking.

He found it on top of a hill that was trying to be a mountain, remnants of a small mine boarded up and a sickly orange runoff that didn't bode well for the contents inside. He hitched Goldie some distance away from the stuff, not wanting her to even sniff at it. Whatever it was, it was poisoning the plants around it. Dead grass, and gray, spongy soil wherever it oozed. Can't imagine the effects on an animal - but had a sneaking suspicion that this runoff had something to do with the local wildlife going loony.

He tore off the dry-rotted boards and entered with his lantern lit. It was a flooded downward shaft to the main chamber, wooden ceiling and side boards broken and soft from moisture. The rock and boards were splotched with yellow mineral deposits. His eyes watered from the stench. No mine should smell this bad. Like rotten eggs and shit. The remains of bats and vermin, bloated with death, floated in the ankle deep water. His lungs tightened in protest, already abused from his morning fits. He paused and wheezed, doubling over, on the verge of retching. He tied his neckerchief over his nose and mouth, filtering out the worst of the smell. _Stick em up, partner._ His weak chuckle reverberated through the chamber, putrid orange water lapping at his boots. Now, what was in this shit? He grabbed a glass bottle from one of the cobwebbed supply boxes and took a sample. Looked nasty, whatever it was. Some sort of chemical? The walls were dripping with the stuff, though. Maybe lead? Arsenic? If that were the case…

Over in a dark corner, the skulking shadow behind a pile of soggy crates gave the fella away, whoever it was — though it wasn't hard to guess that a certain old shaman had followed him in here. Protecting the dig's secrets, fooling a nearby town into believing arsenic or lead poisoning was somehow a "curse".

"Hey, I see you over there! The jig's up, asshole. I know what you're doing —"

The explosion knocked him backward, but not enough to send him into the water — which could prove deadly if he swallowed even a mouthful. Ears ringing, he stared dumbfounded at the collapsed tunnel, his stunned brain not quite realizing the danger until his lungs gave him a raspy reminder.

Fumes…oh shit.

With no airflow, the toxins in the polluted water built to a lethal level in minutes, vapor that needled his eyes and made the phlegm in his throat burn as he spat it out. By then he was already moving, searching, the yellow light of the lantern swinging wildly over the stone walls. There! A whistle of clear air though a cleft in the rock big enough for him to squeeze through. The next chamber was a cave that led to another pitch black tunnel. Fumes still too strong. Gotta find the damn exit. Tears streamed down his face, the cave walls shimmering faintly through them. Mustard colored vapor all around him, getting thicker, more acidic. The cotton of the neckerchief did little to fend it off, and even seemed to draw it in, seal it in his lungs — which was absurd to think, but he tore it off anyway, leaving it in the tunnel as he stumbled down another like a drunkard.

Follow the stream. Follow the stream. It had to go somewhere. Water trickled and flowed. The sounds of his pained grunts seemed to bounce off the walls and then get eaten by them. The walls themselves shimmered with all sorts of colors now. Pretty reds and purples and greens. He shook his head and endured another round of coughing. Tasted like blood this time. That shaman bastard. When he got out of here, there was a bullet with the shaman's name on it — but shit, he never got the fellas name that did he? A giggle erupted from his aching throat and brought along a hacking cough that cut through his torso and sent him to his knees. He lost his balance, sliding down a steep incline that didn't seem to end. His lantern broke as he rolled and smacked headfirst into a boulder.

Darkness, smothering and hot, like a wool glove wrapping around him and squeezing. Water dripped from somewhere and whispered his name. Drip drop. Splish splash. _Arthur?_ It sounded like Dutch. Nothing but blackness and the dripping. Dutch wasn't here, but his voice came with the water. _The doubting, son. Oh, the doubting. It breaks my heart._ Then John, musing and reflective. _Loyalty is all that matters, right?_ Then Micah's laughter, low and cruel. _Wakey, wakey, Black Lung._

The sky peeked though a large cleft in the rock ceiling. Stars twinkled in inky space. Night already? He wiped his mouth, spat out the grit and sour metal taste. Was in some cavern, stony bedrock and ledges lit by the emerging moon. Groaning, he got to his feet and groped his way along the rocky wall. Glass from his lantern crunched under his feet. The cleft was too high to climb out, and the stream he'd been following seemed to have dried up instantly. Was that even possible? Above, and along one wide ledge, the moonlight illuminated what looked like cave paintings. Maybe those were a sign, a helpful nod that pointed the way out of this death trap.

But no such luck. When he picked his way up there, slowly, wheezing every step of the way, the paintings took on a more sinister context. On the canvas of rock, a group of warriors hunting a herd of giant buffalo, the animals drawn in thick crude black, and though the moonlight washed it a dull shade of pink, a bloody smear along the hindquarters marked each of the herd, the splotch curling into the center where the animal's stomach would be. And oddly, the hunters seemed to be riding _away_ from the buffalo, not toward them. Strange and a little grim. Were the animals supposed to be wrong somehow? Maybe the Indians in these parts knew this cave was toxic and this was a warning for dumbasses that got themselves trapped and lost — and damn it, he should've known better than to get caught unawares. Shaman his ass. That Indian fella better start communing with the spirits real quick because he was gonna join them right after—

A faint whisper of a breeze beckoned a look to his left. An opening here, clear as the nose on his face, and he'd been standing right next to it for Christ's sake.

Eager for payback, he pushed forward, hugging the side of the passage when it went black all around him. Well, this wasn't good. The breeze picked up though, and straining his ears, the sound of water gurgled nearby. Easy now. It'll be all right. Take it slow, one baby step at a time. There's gotta be another opening close by.

But there wasn't, and it wasn't until the sounds faded, and silence enveloped him much like that woolen glove of before, that panic started to creep in and eat away at his resolve. Where the hell was he? Couldn't see shit. Hear shit. His fingers were going numb as they slid against the stone. Scraping, scratching, and even that sound seemed muted, swallowed by the impenetrable dark. Heart pounding, every wheeze louder and wetter than the last. On and on he went, blind, the stone his only lifeline. Quicker, picking up the pace. _Don't panic, you fool._ Too late for that. Go, go, go. The floor could drop out from under him the very next step. Could fall off a precipice at any second — but that didn't matter no more. Go, go. Hurry. Had to get out. No light. No sound. It went on forever. He was going to die here. Die in the dark surrounded by stone and silence and the worst of it was no one would know. And even worse than that, no one might give a shit. Dutch would think he skipped out. John would hang on that damn prison island. Little Jack would be fatherless and Abigail would be heartbroken. And Micah…

Michah would throw a goddamn party.

That thought goaded him on a little further. Rage always was a powerful motivator. His daddy always used it, and that apple didn't fall far, though he liked to pretend it had. Far enough anyway to deny any part of that bastard was a part of him. The stone tunnel seemed to press against him and release — like it breathed. And for a wild moment, he imagined he was really descending a throat, not a cave tunnel. His heart thudded against his ribs, pulse like a fist on a door, demanding and loud and after a while it seemed all that he was. A drumming, angry thing, until the realization came that it wasn't his heart at all. Not his.

Not _his._

He stopped and opened his eyes wide. Stupid, as there was nothing but black. Hallucinating, he had to be. The stone under his hand…throbbed. His yelp came out muffled, like the dark itself was muzzling him. Throbbing and…soft. Almost _squishy_. Not stone.

 _Get ahold of yourself, Morgan. It_ _'s the gas messing with you. It's the dark. What are you? A boy or a goddamn grown man?_

The mental slap to his brain didn't do much in the way of mustering courage. His own pulse — the one he identified as his own — fluttered in his chest like a wounded bird.

The _throb_ — its official name now — had slowed to a steady beat, and then slower still, lazier, like it knew it had caught him.

 _Knock it off! These are fool thoughts! It_ _'s just a cave. Stone and dark. A cave. Nothing more._

But whatever that primal part of a man, the animal, the thing of instinct that ruled over sense or intellect, begged to differ. That part of him screamed silently until his entire body shook with the desperate need to obey.

_Get out. Run._

Half out of his mind, he fled down the black throat with no heed to where he was going or how he was getting here. He snarled with disgust every time he hit the porous membrane of the walls, sleeves of his union shirt getting cold and damp in the places where it made contact. His riding gloves were getting slick with…something. The smell now, a metallic scent like rusted pennies hung in the heavy air. And everywhere was that throb, still drumming lazy, the tempo unhurried and calm even as he hurled himself like a madman through the dark. There was a light now, a virulent red. It seemed to pour over him, hot and sticky, like he ran though a cloud of fresh blood.

Then as he had feared would happen, the ground dropped under his feet. He tumbled into the darkness in freefall, his scream cutting off as he hit the spongy bottom.

He lay stunned for the second time, warmth leaking down the side of his face. The space that held him seemed to warp and turn inside out. There was something there. _Something there with him._ A huge mass that covered the far, towering wall. Looking at it _hurt._ Looking at it made him want to gouge his own eyes out. There was a fragmenting sensation, like his brain was trying to escape his skull. _Everywhere red._ The wind came back into his lungs with a wheeze and coughing took him to the brink of passing out. _Roping things, thousands of them, giant tendrils of flesh under his knees._ Wouldn't have minded, to be honest. Even if the fall had killed him, it would've been a mercy. _Glistening, pulsing. Couldn_ _'t feel himself no more._ He wanted to die.

His satchel. Where was it? _Wide place. Impossibly wide. And wet. Blood wet._ Another splintering of sorts deep inside, his thoughts peeling away like burning bark from a tree. He pawed at his chest, finding the satchel, opening it, pulling out the journal. A moment of peace. His place. His sanctuary. Pencil needed sharpening, but that was okay. It was okay. Okay now. Oka—

 _They were moving. But they were dead. All the mouths were open._ Shutting his eyes but saw them still. Always would see them. The _throb._ The source of it. Two of them intertwined. No feeling in his fingers, yet he drew. Droplets of red welled like sweat on his skin. These droplets rose into the air, became a red mist. Backwards rain. Coughing made it rain harder. The wall had no end. It went up and up and up —

_And so did they._

No end and no beginning. But twisted like a dream gone wrong. Wings. Folded and spread. Broken and splintered like him. Drip drop. Soaked through.

What he drew was his shield. It kept him from being swallowed whole. The only way he could see them proper. Couldn't look at them head on, no. His brain would split open and burn to ash.

_If only they would stop screaming._

They had a ring of worshipers encircling them. Mummified corpses. Naked. Clothes from all walks of life. Garb from centuries ago. Skulls split open. Faces gone. _Stop looking. Stop seeing._

Bent over his drawing, the last tenuous grasp of his sanity. Something there in the picture not there before. Human shaped. Coming closer.

Closer.

Run? Could he still do that? In his mind he ran away a hundred times, but it wasn't real. Neither was the shape crawling toward him in the drawing.

Wheezing again, a rattle in his throat.

The thing in the drawing made the same sound.

It was right in front of him.

He twitched but stayed rooted to spot. His body was dead, but not his mind. Still thinking, still here.

His body was _dead._

It hit him then. His broken brain putting two and two together. The red mist had been his blood. They had drank him as he drew. Somewhere between that final pencil stroke and the thing's appearance, he had hunched over his last piece of art and died.

So what was this? Hell? But that made no sense. _They_ made no sense.

_What do you want from me?_

Something touched his hair. Blood-soaked strands moved aside almost tenderly. Wasn't he dead? How could he feel that?

_And what the hell was touching him?_

He looked without seeing. The thing in the drawing reached out to touch him again, pencil strokes shifting and elongating as the air stirred in front of his face. Another him. Standing in front of him and also in the drawing, naked and drenched in blood, healthy and robust as he used to be.

_Their gift._

The other Arthur knelt till they were level with one another. It tilted its head, eyes white and soulless.

_One more thing before you go._

It spoke with his voice, but its lips didn't move. Then it opened its mouth.

 _Teeth_. Its teeth were —

It struck him like a snake, burying its rows of fangs deep in his neck, taking what blood he had left and more. It feasted and his body withered, a husk of itself. His awareness flipped around, a mirror turning inside out.

He stared down at the corpse crumbling to dust in his hands, uncomprehending. These were his clothes. Why wasn't he wearing them? Realization came slow, as the old him struggled to adjust to the new him. His brain came back together with his body, time reversing, the bark on the tree smooth and young again. A penetrating ache unfurled inside this body not his, a hunger he had never known before.

 _Feed us,_ they said. Voiceless and piercing. Every part of him vibrated with their need.

 _No._ But he was a tiny fish denying the ocean's will.

_Obey._

_No, damn you. I said NO._ A bird trying to escape the sky.

A writhing worm of fire burned low in his gut, twisting and turning until it turned on itself, eating tail to head. Over and over. Endless. Maddening.

_You will feed._

He fled their chamber, their grave, their womb, mindless to escape the finality of their demand. But it didn't matter how far he ran, or where he hid. He was a single world in their cosmos, a insignificant mote in the sea of their eyes. They had remade him. He was their creature. Always and forever. He was theirs and they were his. Ocean and sky. The goddamn universe itself.

_Feed us._

_Yes._

**Author's Note:**

> For my readers who have been wondering if I've dropped off the face of the planet, I wanted to post something to prove I'm not dead. I'll go into more detail when I update my other stories, but my dad had a massive stroke in September and that pretty much destroyed my muse to write. I've had to take over in caring for my mom who can't fend for herself and that has placed a lot of stress on me in general. When I'm stressed, I can't write. 
> 
> But I loved Red Dead Redemption and the character Arthur Morgan, and have had this story in the works for a while. A little apprehensive posting it, as I tend to write weirdness and sex, and since this is a new fandom for me, not sure how it will be received. 
> 
> But, if you enjoyed this so far, please leave a comment or two. Thanks for reading!


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